She would be coming over again, later that day, as they had previously arranged. Unfortunately, things in their relationship had become a little strained, of late.
He felt butterflies in his stomach. But they weren't the pleasant, anticipatory butterflies that one often felt when your lover was coming to visit.. These were iron butterflies, with hot, metallic claws, digging and gouging at his insides. Or so it seemed to him.
It was the same old thing, again. The same old, same old, as they put it. Why? Why on earth did he let her do these things to him? Why? What was he? Was he a man or was he a wimp?
Did she love him? Did she have any respect for him? Any respect for him whatsoever?
Could he eventually introduce her to his parents and his brother and his sister, like he had longed for since the early days of their relationship?
He had asked her, several times, but each time she had seemed horrified by the idea. She actually got quite angry the last time he had asked. So he had taken the decision to never ask her, again.
Was she ashamed of him in some way? If she was, why, for goodness sake? He'd never done anything to upset her, or to hurt her. Had he? He had asked her and she had said: "No, it's nothing like that, it's just that I..." she had never finished the sentence. He got the impression that she was, somehow, ashamed of him and of her relationship with him. If so, then that did not auger well for the future of them as a couple, did it?
He sighed, deeply, to nobody in particular. He really could not quite understand her. He felt quite certain that he had not, to use an old expression, quite got the measure of her. And, he thought, morosely, perhaps he never would?
Although she had promised him that she would love him forever, he knew, in his heart of hearts, that this probably would never be a realistic option for them. But it would be nice if she could really just love him. To only love him, exclusively. Even if it was only just for the moment. Or for a series of moments, perhaps?
It was as if, he worried, as if... she was just toying with him. He wanted her and only her. Yet she... she somehow needed other people. Or at the very least, one other, specific, 'special' other person.
Special? Damn that man! Damn him! Why would she not leave off contacting him or worse yet, being with him? Or even worse of all, having sex with him, that damnable other man?
He could not understand that at all! If she were truly, really in love with him, if she were in love with him as deeply and as strongly as he was in love with her, why could she not understand that? Why could she not forsake all others and, what did it say in the Bible about cleaving unto your woman or your man?
A shiver went through him. Maybe she was, after all, genetically prepositioned toward being unfaithful? Was that idea about an unfaith gene a load of hot air? Or was it possible? Were some people, biologically, unable to be faithful to that one special person?
But what if he was not her one, special person? What if ... he... that other one, the skeleton who always sat, uninvited, in the corner of every feast, both metaphorical and real, was her real, one true love?
What if she were, in reality, as he had thought, only using him and his love? Playing with his feelings? Toying with him? Stringing him along until something or someone better came her way?
Would she up trade him for another? For someone better looking? Sexier? Someone with more wealth than he possessed?
He was finding the whole thing starting to become more and more depressing. More soul destroying.
Eventually, it was her time to be here, to be with him. But as she sat in his comfortable living room, sipping her drink, he noticed that she seemed somehow distant, preoccupied.
